


Sunday Morning

by Avice



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: A Thing Of Beauty, Author's Favorite, First Person Narration, First Time, Fluff, Love, M/M, POV John Watson, Romance, Sex, Virgin Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-30
Updated: 2012-09-30
Packaged: 2017-11-15 08:20:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/525162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avice/pseuds/Avice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John wakes up next to Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sunday Morning

I woke up this morning like any other morning. Ten to six. It’s a routine I can’t shake off, but I can fall asleep again usually, if there’s no hurry to get up. 

It takes me a minute to remember that nothing is like on any morning before this. And never will be. At least that’s how I see it. Because an arm draped around me, resting on my chest, palm on my side, is that of consulting detective Sherlock Holmes. The breath against my shoulder. 

As I roll over to my side, he flutters, grip tightening. I caress his hair. Dark curls. He is so peaceful. No sign of the nervous agitation or the extreme alertness that are his two mental states when awake. 

I kiss his forehead. Don’t want to wake him up, but can’t resist either. He stirs. Inches a little bit closer to me, lets out a sleepy grumble. He isn’t awake, but not fully asleep either. I stroke his cheek gently. 

He calms, the breathing regular again. 

Feels like I’ve never been in love before. I can’t have been. I’ve had no idea what it even means before this morning. To love. Prior to this I’ve fancied some people. A bit. As I trace my finger on his bare shoulder an almost unbearable happiness fills me to the brim, spills over. Seems to choke me. I have to kiss him again, the corner of his eye. 

I would gladly, eagerly suffer whatever torment known to man, if it meant that he would be safe, happy, as calm as now. And it would be nothing. 

I can’t imagine a single thing I wouldn’t do for him. Anything, Sherlock, anything. You won’t even have to ask. But these words mean nothing, they don’t even begin to describe my love for him. They are a tiny fraction of what I feel. 

I am not good with words. I’m getting better the more I write, but this feeling certainly exceeds any and all words I know.

We waited for a long time. Or perhaps I waited for a long time. Or maybe Sherlock knew all along how things would work out and had planned everything. He does that. Knows things. Prepares for them. 

“Sherlock? Did you know this all along?” I whisper. He sighs from his sleep. Sherlock, what do you dream of? 

I can never know the man I love. He is too complex. He is too intelligent for me to grasp. His mind is constantly evolving, it is racing towards goals I can’t see. I can only hope that in my life-time I could get close to where he is now. But then he will be long past that. 

He is so innocent and simple. He needs me to love him, to protect him. 

The world hurts him, because he can’t understand what we want. The plebs. I laugh quietly. He can’t understand how we can be content in not knowing, not thinking, not analysing. It’s his only failing. 

He doesn’t know how painful knowledge can be. How harsh and cruel truths sometimes are. They never are to him. He embraces them. They give him a firm footing, a place in the world. I love him.

He surprises me. He is so predictable. I can tell when he is close to a break-through before he knows it himself. I can hear it in the notes he plays, see it in his posture. I can read it on his forehead as he lies on the sofa. I know when to put the kettle on, so that I’m seated comfortably in my chair with a fresh brew as he tells me. Although usually the tea grows cold as we dash off in a hurry. 

But I know only when I notice. Mostly I don’t. I’m reading the paper, writing my blog, out somewhere. I am not constantly watching him. These and thousands of other moments pass me by unseen as I am occupied with something menial. 

Nothing ever passes him by. He pays attention to everything all the time. I can’t do that.

Except now. I wonder what his mind is occupied with now? He won’t know of my hand on his shoulder blade, my touch on his head, how my index finger follows the line of his ear. He exhales. Maybe he does know. 

He calls himself a sociopath. He is not. I’ve met some. I’ve helped diagnose some. He calls himself a sociopath like others call themselves fat or ugly. In an attempt to be contradicted. To be told they are not. To be told they are loved as they are. I do. He knows that I know he is not. But he doesn’t know that the others know too. Would he be happy to know? 

Sometimes he revels in it. In not fitting. He flaunts it. Thinks that that is what makes him special – his success in not fitting. In not caring what others think. But who would care more? He struggles to fit. He can’t. He decides to take pride in it. 

He fits. With me. We fit from the minute our eyes met. 

I waited. Because I can never know him. I didn’t know what he wants. I don’t know who he is. I know everything about him. I know him better than he knows himself. 

I know he wants to look cool. He does. I know he hates sweating, but exercises anyway. Because he knows he has to. I know he has five purple shirts, so that he would always have a fresh one, when he needs it. I know he doesn’t wear purple often, because he thinks it’s too flashy. I’ve seen him change his mind at the last minute about what to wear, turn around, and come back in a white shirt. He wants to look good, but he doesn’t want to stand out. It makes me want to open the purple shirt very slowly, kissing every bit of skin that is exposed with each button. 

It makes me want to tell him that whatever he wears he stands out. To me. 

I waited, because I didn’t know what his marriage to his work was like. Because the labels confused me. Because I thought I knew myself. But how could I have known? I know nothing. I knew nothing before the first kiss. Before I caressed the back of his neck, pulled his lips to mine. I was empty before that. 

His work gives him meaning, a purpose. He needs it. It is a part of him. How could I resent the time he spends working and not with me? I couldn’t. I can’t. I will respect it. I promise.

“I promise, Sherlock,” I murmur. 

“What?” his eyes fly open. He sees me. Smiles. They close again. He nuzzles his face against the pillow. Takes my hand in his.

“You just sleep, love,” I speak softly. Kiss his cheek. 

He falls asleep again instantly. With a smile on his face. He is so beautiful my heart aches.

I waited, because I didn’t know what he knows. I didn’t know what he had decided. I didn’t know what he wants. He is the unknown.

I waited until I couldn’t anymore. Until I didn’t care about the consequences. Until he had built up in me in a way impossible to resist. 

I waited until he was rejoicing in his latest success. Exhilarated by the challenge, by his solution. Explaining his mental processes to me, eyes sparkling, hands waving. Calling everyone he had spoken to during the investigation idiots. I stared at him. I knew I had to. 

I walked over to him. Couldn’t hear what he was saying anymore. Only heard my own heartbeat. I put my hand on his nape. He went quiet. I pulled him closer. I kissed him. 

He didn’t know how to kiss. He surprises me. I taught him. With my lips. I guided him. He always learns quickly. He reciprocated my kiss. I wanted him. I have always wanted him. He is the only one I have ever wanted. I didn’t know what desire is. 

I told him I want him. I told him I love him. I told him I have always loved him. I couldn’t help myself. I had to tell him. The words flowed from me before I could stop them.

He surprises me. He isn’t afraid of love. He isn’t afraid of want. Maybe because he doesn’t know how destructive they can be. He will never need to know. I promise. He was annoyed with being told. He said it was obvious. He said he had always known. He said he loves me. He loves me. I didn’t know.

He was nervous. Because he didn’t know what would follow. Because he felt things he had never felt before. We kissed for a long time. I pressed myself against him. I was hurting with want. I had to give him time. Be patient.

I took him to the bedroom. To this bed. 

I took off my sweater. Let him study me. He was nervous. He kissed my neck hesitantly. He bit my neck confidently. He caressed my torso. His fingers pinched my nipples. I was so hard I had to ease my trousers. He opened them. He undressed me. 

He said he loves me. He said he loves my body. That he will devote his life to studying it. I asked what about his work. He said the work can go to hell. We laughed. We kissed.

I undressed him. Very slowly. I wanted to give him time. I wanted to tease him. I kissed every inch of his skin as it unravelled from the confines of his clothes. He was moaning. Panting. His hips bucking. He said please. I chuckled. He says please only when he is forced to. He told me I’m a cruel man. 

He is beautiful. He is handsome. The white, even skin going on for miles. The muscles on his abdomen. I pressed my thumbs, hands against them. Wanted to feel them tightening. Kissed them. 

His erection against my chest as my mouth wandered over his torso. Spreading slickness on me. I wanted to devour him. 

I took his cock in my hand. He gasped. Need in his eyes. I stroked him, passed my thumb over his glans. He was moaning, panting. 

Our lips, our tongues. Whatever we did they weren’t getting enough contact. I thought I would die. 

I wrapped my hand around both our cocks. I wrapped his hand around both our cocks. Cock on cock. 

He came. Sperm spilling on his stomach, mine. Back arched, eyes closing, neck tilting back. Frozen for a second, before relaxing, letting his body fall. He trembled a little. 

I came. I groaned. Everything went dark. Everything went so light that I couldn’t see. Staggering force. I fell against him. The wet smear between us. I told him he was amazing. I kissed him. He was unable to speak. I smiled.

“John?” he wakes me from my reverie.

“Hmm?”

“You have been staring at me for nearly two hours now.”

“Have I?” I kiss his shoulder. He hasn’t opened his eyes.

“You’re getting so horny I can’t sleep.”

I chuckle. 

I cover his mouth with mine, roll him over to his back.

“Problem?”

His lips, his hands answer me, pulling me closer, sucking me in.

I want to own him, conquer his body. I mar his neck, he gasps. My teeth grate the curve of his neck to shoulder. 

I pull off the duvet from between us. Press against him. Feel his skin on the length of my body. His hands wander in my hair. 

I take him in my hand. He is hard. Is it only me or also the morning? It doesn’t matter. I stroke him. 

Move my hand to fondle his hip. I suck his nipple hard. He ouches with a smile in his voice. My mouth on him. I am tasting him. We didn’t shower last night. I am tasting me. It’s dirty. It’s hot. 

He bucks his hips, I push them down. Hold my hands on his pelvis. My tongue travels lower. I kiss his belly, right next to his navel. 

I lick the wet tip of his cock. Just once. He squirms. Tries to press my head in closer, I resist. Go lower. Kiss his thighs. Kiss the insides of his thighs. Stroke his balls. Press my thumb on his perineum. His breathing is ragged. 

I press my tongue on the shaft of his cock. He exhales relieved. Has been waiting for this. I lick up. Wrap my fist around him. Slow strokes. I take him in my mouth. He pushes further in. I gag. He pulls out. Mumbles a sorry. I shrug to indicate that it’s all right.

My tongue whirls around him. Learns the feel of his cock. The veins. The folds of skin. I suck him in deeper, let go. I suck him in. 

I stroke him. I suck him. He is loving it. His fingers trying to hang on to my hair for support. Tearing. His hips, he tries to control them, they won’t obey. He is moaning my name. He is cursing. Oh, fuck, oh, John. Fuck. I feel a small tug. He comes in my mouth. His cock pumping into me.

I lick him clean. Swallow. Move up. Kiss him on his mouth. He is still repeating my name. 

Wrap my hand around myself. Jerk. 

He covers my hand with his. Makes me release my grip. Surrounds me with his fist. Pulls. 

I come. I have never come before.

We lie side by side. Foreheads pressed together. Hands caressing flanks. I tell him I love him. He loves me too.

We kiss.


End file.
